


put on your war paint

by Rainbowcat



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blowjobs, M/M, Minor Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, This is shameless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24435859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowcat/pseuds/Rainbowcat
Summary: Andrés gets himself roughed up. Martín isn't nearly as outraged by this as he probably should be.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 20
Kudos: 122





	put on your war paint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/gifts).



> For boom_slap, who not-so-gently encouraged me to write this and helpfully supplied half of what's in it. <3

Despite evidence to the contrary, Andrés de Fonollosa is not a violent man.

Of course, there is a time and a place for violence. It both belongs to and maintains the natural order; it is the judge, jury, and executioner of all societies, civilized and otherwise. And yes, there are moments in which Andrés enjoys violence, the way that he enjoys art and literature and music. It’s yet another form of expression, destruction in lieu of creativity. Both can be entrancing.

But he’d rather not get his hands dirty, strictly speaking. If he needs to inflict violence upon another, his first choice is to direct someone else and watch from afar. His distant second choice is to find some tool, an instrument he can wipe off and discard once he’s done. Broken fingernails have no place in high society.

So no, Andrés is not _violent_ , even if he inflicts, uses, enjoys, exploits the act of violence: being violent would imply something uncontrolled and reactive, whereas he prides himself on, if nothing else, a degree of foresight. The principles he abides by may not be society’s, but he is a principled man, nonetheless.

Which is why he decides - with a modicum of thought, and careful planning - to try, once and for all, violence for its own sake.

It isn’t difficult. Pain exists in every corner of human society, and the universe tends toward chaos. Tapping into it is as natural and simple as breathing.

Andrés finds a sure target. Someone of twice his size and half his restraint. He chooses his words as carefully as he would fresh citruses from the market; no sense in wasting breath.

“Why don’t you run home and fuck your whore wife,” Andrés croons into his ear, “before I do it for you.”

*

Somewhere far off, the door to the monastery opens, and Martín hears Sergio cry out _Dios mio_.

Martín lifts his head up from his sketches, interested. Sergio is a difficult man to rile up into exclamation: when troubled, he rather deflects and mutters and slinks away. Martín had once regaled Sergio with a description of his most recent lover’s exact length, girth, and hardness level; he had begun attempting to rank the cock in question on the Mohs scale before Sergio had dropped his spoon with a loud clatter and seized the opportunity to flee. So whatever is happening now must be particularly special.

He arrives at the entrance hall and stops. Sergio is there, clearly fussing over Andrés, who’s just arrived. Martín catches the tail end of his monologue-

“-this isn’t _Fight Club_ , Andrés, are you actually trying to get yourself killed?”

“Please,” Andrés says in a bored drawl. “All you do is punch bags, where’s the fun in that? How would you fare against something that hits you back?”

“Better than you, clearly,” Sergio snaps. He half-turns and notices Martín’s presence. “Martín - tell your _friend_ he’s being an idiot.”

Sergio stands aside as he approaches, and Martín inhales sharply.

Andrés is wearing the same gray three-piece suit he went out in, but it’s the only recognizable part of him. His nose and chin are smeared with blood, and there’s purpling around one of his eyes, an omen of a bruise in bloom. Martín’s eyes flick down to Andrés’ hands, which are bloodstained as well, several knuckles split open. A patch of Andrés’ hair is wet, matted down.

Martín is breathless.

Andrés breaks into a wide grin. Somehow, his teeth are still intact, though stained with red. He looks like a madman.

“Yes, come cry over me like a war wife,” Andrés taunts, though his tone is free of menace. His voice is a touch raspier than usual, and Martín bites down a shiver.

Martín takes a few careful steps forward. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says, and picks up one of Andrés’ hands in his own. Andrés makes no move to stop him. Martín flips it over to examine the state of Andrés’ knuckles. “My, my. Haven’t you been a bad boy.”

Andrés says nothing, but his eyes blaze impossibly brighter.

Sergio clears his throat, and Martín glances at him, a little surprised at his continued presence. “You need to sit down. And ice.”

They situate Andrés in the library. He doesn’t make a sound, but collapses somewhat too heavily into one of the leather chairs. Grimly, Sergio presses a cloth-wrapped pack of ice into Martín’s hands. 

“Don’t frown like that,” Andrés chastises Sergio. “It makes you look like an anxious grandma.”

Sergio’s lips just press into a thin line. 

Andrés is not so easily deterred. “And if I told you about all the fun I’ve just had?”

With a huff, Sergio turns and storms off. “-fucking unbelievable,” Martín hears him muttering before the door slams shut.

Martín leans over Andrés, who’s watching him, alert and apparently at ease. This close, he can see flecks of blood forming rust-colored stains on Andrés’ vest, the lap of his pants.

“What did you do, hm?” Martín asks, quiet now that Sergio’s gone. “Did someone at the bar insult your bowtie?”

Gently, he rubs the cloth against Andrés’ chin. It shifts under his fingers as Andrés breaks into his crooked smile.

“Oh, Martín,” he says softly, and Martín concentrates on his ministrations, ignoring the heat pooling low in his belly. “You should’ve seen me. I was a man possessed.”

“A vengeful archangel, I’m sure,” Martín says, wishing he had a fraction of Andrés’ memory for poetry.

It seems to do the trick, though, because Andrés grins wider. “Holy terror.”

There’s a cut on Andrés’ cheekbone, shiny and with ragged edges. “You really should be more careful, _cariño_ ,” he says, doubting his own sincerity. “This was quite irresponsible-”

-he moves the ice up to the cut and Andrés groans and shuts his eyes. Martín nearly drops the cloth.

“Well? Don’t stop,” Andrés says. Martín swallows, then swallows again. His eyes fall down to Andrés’ vest, which is missing several buttons. Without thinking, he runs his finger along the seam of one of the holes.

Andrés hisses, his eyes flying open.

Martín wrests himself back under control, breathing in and out through his nose, focusing on the ice burning against his fingertips. He swipes the moistened cloth against Andrés’ lips. A droplet slides its way down Andrés’ neck, coming to a tremulous rest in the hollow of his throat.

Slowly, without taking his eyes from Martín’s, Andrés shrugs out of his torn jacket and undoes the buttons of his vest. He doesn’t do any more, but also doesn’t flinch when Martín, fingers trembling slightly, unbuttons his dress shirt.

He sucks in a breath. Andrés’ torso is a mottled yellow and green, sickly shades jumping out even in the dim light of the table lamp.

Martín rises from his half-crouch. There’s cold water running over one of his hands, and his head is swimming with anger and revulsion and-

Excitement. Raw, dizzying excitement.

“Andrés,” he says, nearly choking on it. Andrés sits up a little straighter. 

Martín looks down, following the trail of destruction on Andrés’ body, and that’s when he sees it: Andrés is tenting in his pants.

For a moment, neither of them moves, or breathes. Now, Martín’s head swims with nothing but a vague, buzzing blankness.

“Go on, then,” Andrés says, so quiet he almost misses it, and that’s the only cue Martín needs to drop to his knees.

He doesn’t know what his plan is, what his next step should be, only that he can finally, finally acknowledge to himself how hard he’s been ever since Andrés walked through the door, looking wrecked and gorgeous, and that all he wants is just to lean forward, mouth at Andrés’ dick through the wool, dampen his dress pants with his breath and his saliva. 

So he does.

Martín clutches at Andrés’ hips, and he feels Andrés’ hand on one of his own. For a terrifying moment, he thinks Andrés means to pry him off, but Andrés merely slides the ice pack out of Martín’s hand and resettles it on his own abdomen. Martín looks up. Andrés is staring at him, eyes glittering. As Martín watches, he leans back ever so slowly, resting his other hand on Martín’s head.

Martín takes a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe. It’s a terrible idea: all he can smell is Andrés, his cologne mixing with his blood and something headier, and it takes every last drop of willpower not to pass out just from the aroma alone.

“Are you going to suck me off properly?” Andrés says, deep. “I’m injured. My energy levels are low.”

It’s enough to goad Martín into action. On his knees, he leans forward and unzips Andrés’ dress pants. He reaches into the silk briefs, and Andrés’ dick springs free a moment later.

Martín groans. He would spend years worshipping this dick, if he could. Admiring it from every angle, the way it twitches in his hand, the way precome gathers at the head. But Andrés thrusts up, and Martín takes the hint. He lowers his mouth onto Andrés’ dick, exhaling through his nose.

Andrés goes quiet, and still. Martín looks up through his lashes, and Andrés is still looking back, the hand on Martín’s head pressing him further down.

Lightheaded with arousal, Martín takes Andrés in deeper, swirling his tongue around the head of Andrés’ dick. The heat of him, the weight on his tongue, make Martín’s mouth water. He’s never wanted anything this badly.

He takes Andrés down until his mouth meets his fist, getting him wet. And then, barely remembering to keep breathing, he moves his head up and down, tongue licking a firm stripe up Andrés’ dick.

Andrés exhales loudly. Suddenly, the hand in Martín’s hair is yanking him back. Martín’s eyes water with the sweet burst of pain along his scalp. Andrés’ dick is still standing hard and shiny in the air between them.

“Martín,” Andrés says calmly, and anyone who isn’t him would miss the way he stumbles ever so slightly over the second syllable. “Go get me a glass of whiskey.”

It’s not even a hint of a question. Martín jumps up instantly, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to make it to the kitchen.

The kitchen - where Sergio is sitting at the table, watching him and frowning. Martín angles his body away, trying to hide that he’s hard enough to hammer nails, rifling through the cabinet instead.

“What are you doing?”

“Andrés,” Martín says. His voice is rough, almost pleading. He clears his throat. “I’m finishing him off.” 

There’s a pause. Martín bites his lip and locates the whiskey at last.

“Finishing _cleaning_ him off. I- yeah.”

He pours out a glass with shaking hands. Ignoring Sergio’s gaze boring a hole into his back, he darts back into the library and shuts the door. Locks it. He takes a moment to lean his forehead against the door and gasp in a few breaths before turning back around to Andrés.

He regrets the decision instantly. Andrés is leaning back in the leather chair; one hand is still holding the ice to his bare stomach, the other is stroking leisurely up and down his dick. There’s dried blood beneath his nose and on his cheek, and Martín will never, ever be able to come to anything else again.

“Bring it.”

Martín does. Andrés takes the glass from him and their fingers meet.

Martín sinks to his knees again. Above him, Andrés takes a slow, measured sip, letting his eyes flutter closed.

“What are you waiting for?”

Martín isn’t. He’s salivating; when he takes Andrés’ dick back into his mouth, drool slides down his chin, hot and wet, onto the zipper of Andrés’ pants.

As he slides his mouth up and down, up and down, Andrés sinks lower, and suddenly lets out a low, open-mouthed moan. It goes through Martín like lightning through a rod. His spine stiffens, and he squeezes the inside of Andrés’ thigh with the hand that’s not currently pumping Andrés’ dick. He rubs his tongue in tight circles under the head, sucking Andrés down to the base and licking at the slit.

Andrés moans again, this time a semi-coherent word - _please_ \- and Martín looks up to see Andrés, head tilted back, only the trickle of blood gleaming under his nose. With a choked groan, Martín shoves a hand down his own pants and starts jerking himself off, hard and ruthless. 

He tightens his lips and sucks hard, and Andrés’ thighs tense on either side of his head. And then, with a sharp inhale, Andrés comes, shooting hot and salty into the back of Martín’s throat.

It’s enough to push him over the edge. He gasps, come trickling out of the corner of his mouth when he opens his lips, and orgasms into his own hand, vision going white.

Martín blinks back to awareness a second later, flat on his ass. There’s a faint ringing in his ears. Above him, Andrés is putting his dick back in his pants and zipping it up. He takes another drink.

They say nothing. Martín struggles to his feet and sways a little. Andrés is still holding the cloth to his torso; at this point, most of the ice has melted, water collecting along the seam of his pants and darkening it. Martín stares.

With an impatient noise, Andrés tugs at his wrist so that Martín is sitting on the arm of the chair. He has a split second to be shocked; then Andrés is kissing him, hard and fast, tongue and teeth clashing.

Martín feels a sharp pain. He pulls back with a cry; Andrés has bitten his lower lip.

“Fuck,” Martín grates out. “Was that necessary?”

There’s a manic gleam in Andrés’ eyes Martín knows only too well. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Andrés snorts and looks away. “Tell Sergio to go get the first aid kit.”

Numbly, Martín gets to his feet. There’s come drying in his pants, and his hair is doing God only knows what, still damp with the sweat of Andrés’ palm. He turns to go.

“Oh, and Martín?”

He turns back around. Warmth, sudden but not unwelcome, blooms in his throat.

“Clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://rainbowcat-writes.tumblr.com)! (Yes, I'm aware my writing blog is a ghost town.)


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